Leila Lewis vs. Jillian Michaels (I'll probably get flagged for this)

 

Writing Everyday

***WRITING EVERYDAY***

Lord knows how many times I’ve beaten this topic to death. Every time I logon to Face Book, I see a primordial ocean of memes telling me to write every single day of the week with no excuses. As frustrating as it is sometimes to read those memes, they’re absolutely right. If I could write every single day, I’d be one smiling motherfucker. It’s not like I haven’t been put on that schedule before. You don’t graduate from WWU without writing everyday. Hell, even in 2011 when my schizophrenia was flaring out of control, writing was a daily grind that I embraced.

There’s not on particular thing that contributed to my ability to write everyday in the past. It was more like a multitude of happenings. I was younger, so I had more energy. I drank cans of Red Bull and Amp Lightning like there was no tomorrow. I also was a proud practitioner of the Atkins Diet, which resulted in my minimum weight being somewhere around 240 lbs. But just like with all good things in life, these temporary fixes were just that: temporary. Being young doesn’t last forever, as evidenced by my induction into the dirty thirties. The energy drinks were making my heart race, so I had to stop drinking them at the risk of having a heart attack. The Atkins Diet, just like with all fad diets, was never meant to be permanent, so now I’m back up to 300 lbs.

Now that I’m older, heavier, and caffeine-free, it seems as though I spend most of my time walking around like a zombie and napping with Smokey. Napping with Smokey is a wonderful activity, but it doesn’t result in creative bursts. Because of this newfound tiredness, my head isn’t as clear as it once was and when your head’s fogged up, you can’t concentrate. When you can’t concentrate, your writing turns to shit. Sure, first drafts are never meant to be perfect, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have an obligation to at least try to make them that way.

One of the things I’m currently doing to remedy this problem of mental exhaustion is using a CPAP every night. It’s an oxygen machine designed to counteract sleep apnea, a disease where you stop breathing in your sleep and wake up tired the next day. Sleep apnea can be caused by a number of things, weight gain, a large neck, and antipsychotic medications among them. Even though I use my CPAP every night, it’s not a surefire guarantee that I’ll be alert and ready to go for that particular day. Some days I can knock it out of the park, other days I just want to lay in bed and do jack shit. That’s part of the reason why I get a lot of creative work done in the nighttime: because I spend most of the morning and afternoon trying to wake the fuck up.

I admit that a lot of my mental exhaustion is my fault. The Atkins Diet failed because I love carbs too much. I especially like foods from Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, KFC, and Quizno’s. The most I do for exercise is walking two miles every day in the frigid weather, but it’s only a matter of time before the rain, snow, and wind come rolling through and going outside is no longer an option. I have a gym membership, but no car, so I can’t go whenever I want. If I had the chance to exercise everyday at an intense rate without gassing out in the first few seconds, my food addiction might not even be an issue. And yes, that’s what it is, folks: an addiction to food. Sugar, salt, and fats are all more addictive than cocaine. They’re designed to be that way, because the food industry needs repeat customers. Mission accomplished. It’s not a copout; it’s the truth.

If I could write every single day without worrying about mental energy, you’re damn right I would. I’m self-motivated, I’m hardworking, and every supervisor I’ve ever had admired my work ethic. Throughout my college days, both at Olympic and Western Washington, I’ve only had five C’s and two D’s. The two D’s were in the same subject: physics. The one C at Olympic College was for a sociology class taught by a former Harvard professor. The other four C’s happened at WWU, where everything is by design harder than anything taught at a community college like Olympic. More often than not, I’ve had either an A or a B in whatever class I took at the two colleges. That’s a lot of fucking classes and only a handful of times have I been unsatisfied with my grades.

I listed those credentials not to toot my own horn, but to prove that I’m capable of finishing any project I set my mind to. It’s all a matter of having an endless supply of mental energy that day. If not today, then tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. Or the day after that. The easy solution for me would be to eat better, exercise harder, and keep a positive mindset. But the truth is, if it was that easy, I’d be a middleweight by now with novels out the yin-yang. Being healthy is a skill. That’s why we have entire competitions and games dedicated to being a skillful athlete: hockey, wrestling, basketball, football, or whatever. It’s not a skill that can be perfected right away. It’s one that has to be crafted and learned over time, just like writing.

For those of you out there who post memes suggesting that I should write everyday, know that I’m listening with both ears wide open. Not only do I listen, but I also agree. I’ve done it before and I can do it again. The ability to work hard doesn’t just go away because you’re done with school. And whatever you do, don’t let anybody tell you that you’re lazy just because you were born in a certain time period where technology was readily available. That’s just a dickish statement made by bitter people who gave up on their dreams a long time ago. I may be mentally fogged up, but I’m not down for the count! Not even close! In fact, just when I was certain I wouldn’t get any creative work done today, I wrote this blog! Take that, motherfuckers! We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

Looking back at the short story synopses I wrote back in 2013 and 2014, it’s noticeable how little detail I put into them judging from how short they are. Such is the case with “Dark Skills” (holy shit, that’s a lot of darkness!). The WSS has a new contest going with “Signature” as their main theme. So, here’s how everything fits together:

CHARACTERS:

1.      Matt Singleton, Serial Killer

2.      Carl Howard, Serial Killer

3.      Michelle Woods, Victim

PROMPT CONFORMITY: Carl is in the process of tattooing Michelle’s lower back with his indecipherable signature when Matt breaks into the apartment.

SYNOPSIS: Matt and Carl are rival serial killers who want the same victim. Michelle is all alone in her apartment and ripe for the picking. The two killers use different entrances to gain access to the apartment and argue with each other over who gets the kill.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Another thing I’ve noticed is that there are two synopses in my archives that revolve around the Spanish word “Comegente”, which translates into English as “cannibal” or “human eater”. One of those synopses is titled Los Comegentes and features a seven foot tall Mexican gangster named Patrick Ortiz whose weapon of choice is a chainsaw. Great stuff, huh? Guess what? Patrick is going to be the next Dark Fantasy Warrior.

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DANTE: I can’t believe you. I finally get my shit together. I’m hours away from getting out of here and really starting my life and you somehow manage to obliterate all of that and reduce me to a convict!

RANDAL: Oh yeah, it’s my fault your life’s fucked up. I’m the engaged guy who knocked up my boss.

JAY: You knocked up the guy who owns Mooby’s? Ew!

-Clerks 2-

Alcohol of Fame

VERSE 1

How could you do this to yourself?

How could you endanger your health?

How could you put them through hell?

Is it too late to ask for fucking help?

CHORUS 1

Alcohol of fame

Your career’s going up in flames

Alcohol of fame

You’ve only got yourself to blame

VERSE 2

Snort a little cocaine, shoot some heroin

Chugging Oxycontin and good old Vicodin

Popping Viagra while committing mortal sins

The pressure brings you to your dirty shins

CHORUS 2

Alcohol of fame

Your excuses are so damn lame

Alcohol of fame

You make zombies look so tame

VERSE 3

Everything of yours is going down the tubes

You’re fucking yourself with bloody lube

You’re smashing up your own hotel room

Wake the fuck up or meet your own doom

CHORUS 3

Alcohol of fame

Your pathetic stories sound the same

Alcohol of fame

Watch it all go down the drain

Yeah!

Alcohol of fame

Psycho visions swirling in your brain

Alcohol of fame

Watch you dying in the coldest rain

FINAL VERSE

It’s never too late to turn back the clock

And drag your sorry ass back to the top

Admitting you’re wrong is the first step

Lying to yourself is the bridge to death

You can be clean and start over again

Or you can be the author of your life’s end

Make a decision, don’t think too hard

The road to recovery is no holds barred

Article

(Sarcastic parody of pop science.)

VERSE 1

Ninety percent of drinks are made with Xantham Gum

I don’t even know where that terminology comes from

All I know is that it could lead to the biggest stroke

Even though this article was probably written as a joke

CHORUS

I read an article on the internet X4

VERSE 2

Eighty percent of fat people are going to die

The rest of us are immortal; why would the article lie?

People who eat kale are going to live forever

The rest of the population will always say never

The sample size is only about thirty-five people

Yet we assume all humans are created equal

The results have been skewed in our own favor

Because avocado butter is the new life saver

CHORUS

I read an article on the internet X4

VERSE 3

The internet sheeple hang on every word we say

Because they don’t get their news any other way

Seventy percent of assholes in laboratory coats

Are trustworthy enough to dispel any single hoax

A hundred percent of people who blindly follow

Have toothpick spines and skulls that are hollow

Science is a business, everything we say is true

Farting cures cancer and even the moody blues

EXTENDED CHORUS

I read an article on the internet

I read with undivided interest

I believed it like I was in a cult

I bought everything they sold

I read an article on a website

I eat seaweed every damn night

I drink smoothies made of fish cum

At least it doesn’t have Xantham Gum

Pills

CHORUS 1

Pills, pills, they’re good for your brain!

Keeping your ass from going insane!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your boner!

Keeping your ass from being a loner!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your heart!

Keeping it from being torn apart!

Pills, pills, come and get some!

The side effects are so much fun!

VERSE 1

Ask your doctor if it’s right for you

Ask your lawyer if you should sue

Ask your banker if you need a loan

Ask your therapist if you’re all alone

Ask your family for a helping hand

Ask your shelter for food that’s canned

So many questions that need to be answered

Side effects include diarrhea and cancer

CHORUS 2

Pills, pills, they’re good for your soul!

So what if you feel empty and cold?!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your penis!

Make it so big, it’s seen from Venus!

Pills, pills, they’re good for your liver!

So what if they make you vomit and quiver?!

Pills, pills, come get a prescription!

Fighting yourself is a war of attrition!

VERSE 2

Don’t take the pills if you want to live

Another prescription to write and give

Side effects may include a big ass stroke

This is all just a prank; it’s all just a joke

We love watching you shiver and fall

We don’t care which lawyer you call

We’ve got more power than a mighty king

With our kind of money, we can do anything

CHORUS 3

Pills, pills, take them for thrills!

Who cares about the pile of medical bills!

Pills, pills, to worsen your ills!

We are the ones who legally kill!

Pills, pills, come get your fill!

Whine all about it on Dr. Phil!

We’re the doctors, we own your ass!

A gallbladder stone is what you’ll pass!

VERSE 3

They could be labeled with an E or V

Swallow them all with sadistic glee

Taste the rainbow like a bag of Skittles

Use your hard-on before it gets little

FINAL LINE

Ask your doctor if Bullshitlexia is right for you.

Self-Pressure

***SELF-PRESSURE***

Dr. Phil McGraw may be full of shit most of the time, but he at least has one thing right: the words we tell ourselves are so powerful that we blindly believe them. If you’re sending yourself negative messages, you’re going to feel sad and angry. If you’re sending yourself positive messages, your self-esteem will be a lot higher.

The same thing goes for the kind of pressure we put on ourselves in order to be successful. Some people do well under such pressure, others crack. When you’re putting the weight of the world on your shoulders, successes and failures become that much more amplified in the way they feel emotionally. But sometimes we put so much pressure on ourselves that no amount of success will satisfy us.

As artists, being unsatisfied with success is a way of life for us. We don’t like to rest on our laurels and that’s a good thing. The creative urge takes over and we continually make more and more pieces of art. But what about our “off” days? What happens when circumstances prevent us from doing our best or doing anything at all? Then the pressure we put on ourselves gives way to negativity and we feel awful about that day. It doesn’t matter what those circumstances are, because in our minds, there are no excuses.

Athletes feel this way all the time since they’re constantly put in pressure cooker situations. In his second match in the UFC, Conor McGregor put on a martial arts clinic against fellow upstart Max Holloway. Although Conor won the match by unanimous decision, he was pissed off with himself because he wanted to win either by knockout or submission. He doesn’t even care how good the match was; he still wanted to win convincingly instead of leaving things in the judges’ hands. He put the weight of the world on his shoulders and it crushed him.

I also put a lot of pressure on myself as many of you know by now. Some days, I’m a working stiff who can put out a short story, a blog entry, a WWE match review, and a drawing all in one day well still being able to read 30 pages of whatever novel I’m on. On those days, I feel high as a kite and nothing can take my big ass down. And then there are those “off” days where I get either so little done or nothing at all done. At the end of those days, I feel empty inside and it’s an awful feeling. Hell, there have been days when I wrote a short story for the WSS and it was the best damn thing I’ve written so far. Yet, I still feel like shit because I don’t feel like it’s enough.

My reasons for putting this much pressure on myself are simple. I’m unemployed and have no social life, which means I have all the time in the world to work on my creative projects. There are people out there who are employed fulltime and go to work anyways even during their “off” days. I feel like I have to constantly prove to myself that I’m just as hardworking as those who have jobs as pay taxes. I don’t know why, but I constantly do. When I go through just one day, one single day, of lazing around, the pressure I put on myself turns me into coal dust instead of a diamond in the rough.

Is self-pressure a good motivator or is it just a way to make people feel like shit? It all depends on how well you work under pressure. Some people achieve great things when the weight of the world is crashing down on them. Some people don’t and they panic easily. Because I’m an autistic schizophrenic introvert, I have increased sensitivity to all stimuli, including the kind I inflict on myself. When the pressure caves down on me, I feel horrible. So maybe it’s a good idea for me to ease some of the self-pressure and be a happy guy no matter what happens.

Anybody can miss one day of creative work. And when you do force yourself to work under extreme conditions, you don’t always put out the best product possible. If anything, these one day breaks of mine are ways to recover mentally so that when I’m ready, I can put out 110% effort and give an A+ performance. Teachers always advise students to get good nutrition and have a regular exercise routine. You know why? Because teachers want their students to have as many “on” days as possible and the only way to do that is by being healthy and getting enough sleep.

So what do you guys think of all of this? Do you put an overwhelming amount of pressure on yourselves as well? If so, do you become a diamond or coal dust? Do you believe alleviating some of this pressure will help you? We’ve got ears, say cheers!

　

***MUSIC DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

“Some may call it a curse, a life like mine. But others, a blessing. It’s certainly a lonely life, but a fulfilling one and the best. It’s my cross to bear and I’ll bear it gladly. Someone has to take a stand against evil. Why should it not be me?”

-Mother Maiden from the Within Temptation song “Why Not Me?”-

Physical Fitness

***PHYSICAL FITNESS***

This coming January, my family and I are going to renew our memberships at the YMCA and exercise there on a regular basis. It’s that time again. It’s time for me to get my big ass back in shape. I’ve seen pictures of myself in the past where I look fantastic and then compare them to how I currently look in the mirror. It’s not a good feeling. What makes me feel better about my weight loss quests is that I’ve been a skinny man before and I can sure as hell do it again. But here’s where it gets tricky: weight loss has always been a back and forth battle for me. I’d make a plan, I’d stick to it, and I’d lose a lot of weight. Then I deviate from the plan just slightly and my weight spirals out of control once again. It’s a cycle I’m eventually going to have to break, but it can’t be done without people supporting me, which means no offers for fast food or ice cream and a staunch commitment to exercise every day despite tiredness.

The other part of this equation is my rebellious attitude towards the weight loss quest. I keep thinking that I have to do these ultra-hard exercises like Cross Fit or hour-long running or else I’m not going to lose any weight. I know for sure that’s not necessarily true, but I keep having scenarios play out in my head exactly like that. I’m not athletically minded by any stretch of the imagination. If I do any super-tough exercises, I’ll tire out within ten seconds tops. I don’t have it in me to ignore my tiredness, so I quit right away. I don’t want to be an athlete who plays sports. I just want to be healthy. Athletes have to do torturous things to their bodies just to maintain their energy. As an autism patient with increased sensitivity to stimuli, I feel the pain of intense exercise tenfold what a normal person feels.

To my way of thinking, physical fitness should come in the form of a handout. I know that’s not entirely realistic, but working that hard to achieve a smaller belly doesn’t appeal to me. But I also know that weight loss gimmicks like fat burning pills and surgery have dangerous side effects that overshadow any tiredness I feel from an intense workout. Here’s the truth: there are no handouts when it comes to physical fitness. If there were, America wouldn’t be the obese country that it is today.

While my plan for physical fitness isn’t in the form of shortcuts nor is it the ninth circle of hell, I do intend to find middle ground between the two. Thus, we have water walking, something I’ve done in the past with a lot of success. I get in the lap pool, run one way, and high-knee march the other. Fighting against water resistance is hard work and will get me the cardio I need. What makes it doable is the warmth of the water and how soothing it is to my joints. Because of this, I don’t actually feel the aches and pains of exercising until after I get out of the pool, which is when I’ve been walking for a whole hour. As the months go by and I start to weigh less, it’ll become two hours. And then three.

I was hesitant about this plan at first because I was rebelling against the idea that my heavy body was compromising my health. Every time I was told that I could have a heart attack or that harder exercises and a kale diet were the answer, I felt like I was being insulted. Insulting me doesn’t motivate me to work harder. It makes me resent the one doing the insulting. When my feelings and individuality are both considered, however, then that’s when exercising and dieting become more natural to me.

In January, the road to physical fitness begins once again. And once I’m on that road, I want to stay on it indefinitely. One slight detour could result in the world’s biggest fiery crash. That means no more ice cream, no more convenience store food, and the only fast food I’m going to agree to eat is from Subway. I’m all onboard with a plan like this. All I need is for people to come through for me and support me in this plan one-hundred-percent. I want to wear smaller clothes. I want to fit into whatever chair I’m sitting on. I want to do basic things without being winded right away. I want to live to be a hundred and look back on life with no regrets. I’m ready. Is everyone else?

　

***MOVIE DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

DANTE: My mom told me a story one time that when I was three, my potty lid was closed. So instead of opening it, I shit my pants.

RANDAL: Lovely story.

DANTE: Look, the point is, I’m not the kind of person who disrupts things just so I can shit comfortably.

-Clerks-

The Franciscan Death Scream

There’s been speculation among every psychic my mother has visited that in a past lives I was always a warrior of some kind. It could have been a barbarian in the dark ages or a marine in Vietnam. I’d say those assessments are true to the fullest extent, especially as they relate to battle cries. Well, these days, the only battle cries I let out are ones where I’m in an extreme amount of pain. You want to know how I define an extreme amount of pain? Stepping on a thumb tack. Banging my elbow against the wall. Banging my head on the roof of a short car. With the way I scream loudly and whiningly in pain, you would have sworn I’d broken a bone or had a limb amputated. But that’s the price of being autistic: high sensitivity to everything, including the most insignificant kind of pain.

My blood draw in 2006 at the Franciscan Hospital in Gig Harbor, Washington was no different. I had to have one because it was part of my physical checkup. Just because I had to have one, didn’t mean I had to particularly enjoy it. Needles are sharp. Sharpness creates pain. Pain creates death screams that make me sound like I’m being fed through a wood chipper or being cut in half crotch first with a chainsaw. I don’t know why people say that needles aren’t a big deal. They’re always going to be sharp and they’re always going to hurt whether they’re drawing blood or threading yarn through a piece of cloth.

My blood draw went exactly how I expected it would. I sat in a chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. The anxiety in my stomach builds. The nurse tied a rubber tourniquet around my upper arm. The anxiety in my stomach builds even further and now I start making little whining noises. The nurse tells me to look away as if that’s going to help ease the pain. It didn’t matter where I was looking, because the end result was having a bastard sword-like needle plunged into my arm.

As to be expected, I let out a blood-curdling death scream. It was loud. It was throaty. It was slightly girlish. It was like being a female lion in an extreme amount of pain. Apparently, there were frightened little kids in the waiting room who ran upstairs after hearing my shriek of agony and their parents ran after them. Any stragglers would have hurried up after hearing me cry, “Take the needle out! Take the needle out!” The nurse did and I let out another bellow of berserker pain.

Ever since that day, anytime I go to that hospital in Gig Harbor, the nurses and doctors always expect me to scream. They make no attempt to silence me, unlike my mother whose favorite line is always, “There’s no yelling.” Oh, but there is. There is and there always will be, dear mother. There was screaming when I had to have my big toes operated on for ingrown nails, there was screaming when I had to have my foot examined after a cat bite, and there’s even screaming at my eye doctor appointments in Port Orchard when he puts stinging drops in my eyes for a glaucoma test.

Unless my mother is considering a career as a dominatrix, there will be no silence anywhere we go. If we go on another horseback ride in Arizona, my groin and legs are going to hurt so badly that I’ll yell as if they’re being blasted with an AK-47. If my computer malfunctions at home or if a WWE pay-per-view on my Roku freezes up, I’m going to scream and swear at either one until my blood pressure is in the 300’s and my pulse is in the 1000’s.

Three things are certain in my mother’s life as well as the life of anybody who lives with me: death, taxes, and barbaric war cries. The only thing I’m missing is a horned helmet and a double-sided battleaxe. Of course, carrying such a heavy weapon would cause strain and strain causes even more shrills of extreme pain. I’ve got the barbaric ethos down to a science and I haven’t even swung my weapon yet (and I’m not sure I will be able to).

　

***COMMERCIAL DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

GUY: I’m eating right and staying in shape. I’ve been doing the Duck Dodger.
GIRL: What’s the Duck Dodger?
GUY: It’s like a triathlon, but with dodge balls.
GIRL: Do they leave a mark?
GUY: Not on the outside.

-Subway-

Fed Up

MOVIE TITLE: Fed Up

DIRECTOR: Katie Couric

YEAR: 2014

GENRE: Documentary

RATING: PG-13 for language and politics

GRADE: Mixed

Fed Up explores the many facets of American food culture from our obsession with sugar and unhealthy chemicals to constant advertising to the end result of it all: obesity. Processed foods have been portrayed as being deadlier than drugs or alcohol since more people die from eating disorders than from lung cancer.

The eating habits of three different families across the country have been monitored by the Fed Up crew and they all are suffering the emotional and physical effects of obesity. There seems to be no immediate hope for this epidemic since politicians, both democrat and republican, are constantly being bought off by food lobbyists. Will we ever break our obsession or will future generations grow up to die at a young age?

Just like with any movie that I give a mixed grade to, there are positives and negatives that need to be explored. The positives are no-brainers. The message of the movie is well-intentioned: be good to your body and your body will be good to you in return. We will eventually come to a point in our lives when we have to pay closer attention to taking care of ourselves.

The message is further spread with the extensive research the writers of this movie did. No stone is left unturned from what chemicals different foods have to which politicians represent which food corporations. The arguments made are so convincing that the message is easy to believe no matter what the audience members’ core beliefs are. Kudos to the Fed Up crew for putting in the hard work and getting things done.

But just like with any ideology or political message, there’s a difference between sharing your views and preaching them with almost religious zeal. The big negative this documentary has falls under the latter of those two extremes. While I do commend them for acknowledging that food addiction is a real thing and not just an excuse for weakness, it still feels like they’re telling me that the next bite of Taco Bell or McDonald’s food I take will be my last.

We all have our guilty pleasures and there are times when it’s best just to respect those pleasures. Eating fresh fruit and vegetables all the time might sound like a healthy idea, but it gets boring after a while. And when you get bored with your food choices, you get depressed. And when you get depressed, you reach for that sizzling steak Quesarito and go back to the cycle of addiction.

With the feeling of impending doom on the horizon, Fed Up feels more like a sermon and less like a diet plan. If I wanted to be showered in religious zeal, I would watch God Loves Uganda. But I didn’t. I watched Fed Up because I wanted hope. I didn’t get any by the time it was all over. In fact, I felt worse about my body than I did before.

In the end, what I believe will save is all won’t be one documentary, one diet and exercise plan, or one influential voice. We need a network of different ideas and support systems. A problem shared is a problem halved. I just wish the Fed Up crew would share my problem instead of making me feel guilty for having one.